


Assassins on a Rooftop

by AvaKelly



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Some angst, Talk of Suicide, alternate universe - spies and vigilantes, just a warning since the prompt included it, love at first shot, mentions of suicidal ideation, nobody goes through with anything, or something, rated M for violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 23:58:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12758922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: Inspired bypost.Clint and Bucky meet on a rooftop.





	Assassins on a Rooftop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BookDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookDragon/gifts).



> Hello everyone o/  
> This is for BookDragon. You are a very kind person and I'm glad I met you.  
> I hope you are all having a great November. I'm slightly (a lot) behind on my Nano writing goals, but what are we gonna do. Work sucks still.  
> In this verse, there are secret organizations (SHIELD), but Steve and Bucky are not from the '40s, just veterans. So almost canon, without superpowers.  
> Enjoy and thank you for reading!

The night skyline of the city stretches into the dark horizon, well beyond where Clint is perched on a warehouse rooftop. The air is cold, that northern breeze settling around him like a sharp array of needles, but Clint feels hot inside. He shifts his grip, finger moving closer to the trigger of the rifle, preparing. He doesn't need a scope, not even this late into the night, yet for now he forces himself to watch through it. Maybe if he doesn't do it his usual way, maybe then he won't be responsible.

It's a ridiculous thought, Clint knows. _He_ is the one about to take a life, not Fury. Not the security council. Not the higher ups making decisions that affect everyone from their comfortable chairs, while Clint is out here freezing his ass off.

Watching Bernadino is easier than mulling over how Clint caved, how Fury _pleaded_ , and Fury only orders, never asks nicely. Watching this man interact with his lieutenants serves as a reminder. This mission is justified. For decades Bernadino rose through the local mob ranks with a ruthlessness that left nearly a hundred bodies behind. His rule over the organized crime sparked conflicts, again and again, as Bernadino fought to take over the city. Clint snorts. Who gave him the right to upend people's lives only for his greed and illegal machinations? Looking at his record, Bernadino _deserves_ it. He belongs in a dark remote cell, and if one isn't available, a grave would do. The council decided, their teams of experts agreed. If Bernadino is allowed to continue, the war that he just started with the Correlli family has casualty estimations in the thousands. So the council decided for Bernadino's assassination.

It feels like an execution.

If only it were. Clint would be more agreeable to carry out a sentence if the target would've had a chance to defend their actions. Like this, though, for the council to conclude Bernadino is guilty with a death punishment, without Bernadino's awareness—this is _wrong_.

And it rubs at Clint in the worst way possible.

He promised himself he wouldn't do it anymore. Fury and Phil both promised, when Clint joined SHIELD, that he won't be put in this situation ever again. Yet they both asked him to come here and step on his beliefs. Clint chose SHIELD over the mercenary life because he wanted to _stop_ putting his skills to use. He wanted to be better. To help. And Nat was not around to take this away from him, like she always does. It's a symbiotic relationship they have—they do the things the other can't, as they'd agreed on when Nat faked surrender for him. Right now, though, she's undercover somewhere in New York, half a continent away, investigating that vigilante group that's been making the news. The Avengers, they call themselves, pretending to be superheroes, but they're quite skilled and virtually uncatchable. There are even rumours they're internationally funded.

Maybe Clint should join _them_ instead.

With a bitter chuckle he shakes his head, refocuses on the target. The rooftop is cold under his belly, his feet in that middle state between awareness and numbness, and Bernadino hasn't moved in a good position yet.

Ten minutes later, a young woman storms in and starts yelling at Bernadino, her arms waving with emphasis. It's his daughter, Clint realizes when she turns toward his line of sight.

Fuck.

She's almost thirty, but Clint can't do this. Can't take a parent's life in front of their child.

His nose itches from the inside and the wind stings against his face, and maybe this is why the telling click of a safety being pulled takes him by surprise.

"Step away from the rifle," a gruff voice says from behind.

Clint stills. The wetness trailing down his cheek refreshes as Clint blinks, and he can't move. Not yet, not now. Not with tears on his face. The man, whoever it is, has managed to sneak up on Clint without triggering _any_ of the sensors Clint installed and without being sensed by Clint himself. Sure, his aids aren't perfect, but in moments like these he's wearing the ops ones, with heavy duty filtering and cranked up to max. He should've noticed someone approaching, but he didn't. Turning around now will only reveal weakness and it will cripple him in a fight.

He closes his eyes, swallows carefully around the lump in his throat while he tries to find a way to wipe his cheeks without being seen.

"Step away," the man repeats. "Or do you want to die tonight?"

And this is where Clint usually puts his foot in his mouth. He doesn't disappoint himself and says "Kinda, yeah."

Nothing happens for a long moment, but then the man walks closer, steps audible this time. Clint watches, out of the corner of his eye, as he sits cross-legged next to Clint. He's too far back for Clint to make out his features, just a knee, an elbow, and hair moving slightly in the wind. Overall, it's not what Clint was expecting, and he almost misses the man's words, too busy trying to figure out what his actions mean.

"Damn. Wanna talk about it?"

Clint does a double take, uncaring of his tears anymore. "Are you kidding me?"

The man shrugs. "My friend always asks me that and it makes me feel better."

Now that Clint really looks, he can see broad shoulders and messy long hair. His mouth is set in a half grimace, one born out of too much sadness, the permanent kind. Clint knows about those too well, but now is not the time to slip down treacherous memories, so he focuses on his unexpected companion. A glint reflects off the man's left arm and—huh. It looks metal, high end prosthetic, probably very expensive. His gear, as well, is top of the line, perhaps even custom made to fit the guy's solid frame, but there are no insignias anywhere. Just black and grey and a small white star on the metal arm near his shoulder. Clint squints at him.

For some reason this man makes him feel safe. Unthreatened, even with the gun still casually pointed at him.

Clint rolls to sit, matches the other's position.

"Since you asked," he says, snapping his fingers toward the warehouse hosting Bernadino, "I don't really wanna shoot this guy."

A small frown forms a wrinkle between the man's eyebrows. "So you're not here for Isabella Bernadino."

"What? No."

The man's shoulders slump and the gun he's holding against his thigh shifts minutely. "Then what are you doing here?"

"What are _you_?"

"Isabella."

Something tight knots in Clint's stomach. "Now, look," he grits, "that woman is the most innocent in that entire family. I'm not going to let you—"

"Whoa," the guy interrupts. He even lets go of the gun to raise his hands in front of him. "I'm here to _protect_ her. We heard there was a hit out on Bernadino, and since the conflict with the Correllis started, we thought his daughter might be the target."

"Should you even give out information like that?"

"It's your turn," the man says instead of answering.

Clint rolls his eyes, hiding the couple of seconds he takes to assess the situation. He wants to avoid a fight and the man doesn't seem to be keen on stopping Clint anymore, so perhaps gaining an ally is more useful right now. It's what Nat would do.

"I've been tasked with taking Bernadino out," Clint offers. "Without him my bosses think the war will end. What's your name?"

Give out information, then immediately request something. It works with most people, but this guy smirks instead. He watches Clint for a while as if he's doing his own assessment and Clint holds still. Fair is fair.

"Bucky. Are they still there?"

Clint spares a glance toward the warehouse. "They are. What kind of a name is Bucky?"

"What kind of a sniper doesn't use the scope?"

"One that sees well without it."

Bucky taps his fingers against his thighs, pensive for a few moments. "You're Hawkeye, aren't you?"

Clint raises an eyebrow in silent question and Bucky shrugs his flesh shoulder.

"You're a bit of a legend," he says, looking away.

Huh. Curious. But before Clint can ask anything else, Bucky's fingers go to his ear and Clint listens to his half of the conversation with whoever is on the other side of that comm.

"I'm in position. No. Slight delay. Yes, got it. Over."

Bucky looks back at Clint, chewing on his lip, and Clint tenses.

"If Bernadino is taken out, we can help Isabella take over his empire. She would ultimately dismantle it from the inside. It's the best longterm course of action."

"Says who, Isabella? What, she suddenly wants to run a crime syndicate?"

"Says my team. She has no knowledge of us and we intend on keeping it this way. Stark estimates that leadership under Isabella will be much better for the city and it will push illegal activities away. Might take years, but it will happen."

"You know Stark," Clint states. "Who _are_ you?"

The smirk from before makes its way back on Bucky's face. "Sniper, like you."

It should feel like camaraderie, but instead it's bitter. Clint shakes his head, doubting Bucky is _anything_ like him. Clint has murdered in cold blood for money. Bucky doesn't look the kind to take lives without batting an eye. He looks more like a soldier than a mercenary.

The amusement falls off Bucky's face, to be replaced with a frown. His eyes turn sharp, calculating as he watches Clint, and Clint starts to feel stripped raw, so much that his heart pumps faster in his chest. Bucky's lips press in a thin line, the corner of his mouth bending downward in that initial grimace of his.

"Why were you crying?"

Clint swallows. It feels too ugly to lie about this, no matter how vulnerable it makes him. There's _something_ about Bucky that tugs at Clint.

"I don't want to kill again," he admits.

"But that's your mission, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Clint breathes. "It is. I don't wanna do it. Put me in a fight and I'll go all in, but this—" he waves toward the warehouse. "Not like _this_. Not when the target doesn't know I'm here."

Bucky huffs a long exhale through his nose and Clint expects derision. Instead, Bucky's face softens as he nods.

"Because you're deadly and it's not fair."

Something crumbles within Clint, bringing the sting back behind his eyes. Someone gets it.

"That's okay," Bucky says. "You don't have to do it."

His metal palm is hot when it presses against Clint's cold cheek, warms his entire being through that one point of contact, and Clint closes his eyes. He leans into it, pliant when Bucky moves closer, not really touching, but his body shields Clint from the wind.

"I'll do it for you," Bucky whispers and Clint does his second double take of the night.

He can't find the strength to say no.

So he watches as Bucky takes his spot, expertly lines the shot. He thumbs his comm open, barks a quick "pick up in two" and presses the trigger.

The warehouse lights up with movement, chaos resounding through the buildings as Bernadino's men spill out guns blazing. Clint can't move, just watches Bucky disassembling the rifle and packing it in its case. The gust of wind picks up with a quinjet lowering onto the roof and Clint is jerked to his feet by Bucky, who drags him inside the aircraft.

~

They're been flying for a while when Clint finally manages to get a grip on himself. Bucky's sitting next to him, still holding onto his arm with his metal fingers, tight enough that it will bruise. Like he's afraid Clint might run, his face blank as he stares ahead, body still.

Clint wraps his free hand over Bucky's metal one. "Thank you," he says, with as much gratitude he can. And he really is, grateful. So fucking relieved.

Bucky relaxes minutely against the back of his seat, but still doesn't move, and Clint is left observing him again. He can see better now, notices the lines at the corner of Bucky's eyes, the dark circles beneath, the stubble covering his face. His hair is clean but in a disarray that says Bucky doesn't like to comb it all that often. Clint wants—

The quinjet is silent around them, save for the hum of running engines. The door to the cockpit is closed and whoever is flying is keeping out of sight. There are a couple of cameras mounted above, so perhaps someone, somewhere, is watching. Yet, Clint's urge is greater than potential surveillance, and he gives in to it.

He leans closer, buries his face in the side of Bucky's neck, nose pushed through his long hair. It smells like soap and cold wind. "Thank you," he says again, letting the tremble in his voice resonate through his words.

This time, Bucky moves. He lets go of Clint, metal arm wrapping around Clint's shoulders, holds him there, still silent but more present.

The seconds tick slowly, turning into minutes, until Clint is sure at least half an hour has passed.

"My name is James Barnes," Bucky finally speaks again, right when Clint is on the verge of sleep, and he snaps awake.

He raises enough to look at Bucky, the name niggling at his memory—oh. It makes sense, now. The prosthetic, the skill, the sadness. The famous sergeant who got captured by enemy forces and brainwashed into a compliant operative, one with an impressive array of assassinations under his belt. Back when Clint was struggling with himself and his own purpose in life, right before he met Nat, he used to read in the paper about Barnes and his miraculous recovery. His escape used to give Clint hope, in that abstract way that strangers' stories inspire people. Now, faced with the man himself, there's a thrill running up Clint's spine.

"I read about you," Clint says, and Bucky nods, still staring straight ahead. Right. He's waiting for judgement, the same one Clint always dreads. "That's not really _like_ me. I chose to do what I did, but you were forced by circumstances."

Bucky withdraws his arm, hugs it around his chest. "Just like you were."

"Can't compare being captured and brainwashed with being raised by morally bent people."

This time Bucky looks at him. "Yes, you can. You were a child when they taught you to kill. A different kind of brainwashing, but the same in essence."

"Bucky..."

"You were what, twelve?" he asks, but doesn't wait for confirmation. He sounds like he knows about Clint's life anyway. "And how many years did you work as a merc?"

"Ten."

"And how many more to get over that conditioning?"

Clint laughs, bitter. "I stopped four years ago, but I—" He shakes his head.

"Exactly. They had me for seven, been out for eight."

"What, it's a competition now?" Clint returns, leaning as far away as he can in his seat.

Bucky crosses his arms with a scowl. "Of course not," he barks.

It dawns on Clint, then, that Bucky gets it. He _understands_. He's wrong, their experiences are not the same. Bucky's life had been worse, he was tortured for years, but he's also right. The effects are similar and now Bucky's taken a life for Clint.

A full body shudder passes through Clint at the thought. "You..."

Bucky unwinds, rolling his eyes. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want to repay me. Take it as gift."

Clint smiles for the first time since he arrived on that roof. The movement feels unfamiliar and he pulls from that silly side of himself that Nat likes after a mission. "Hey, sniper law says you're responsible for me," he jokes. "Save a man from his target, he's yours for eternity."

"Good," Bucky says, unamused. "Now you cannot want to die anymore."

Everything screeches to a halt. Time, sound, taste, sight. All that is inside and outside twirls into one single point of focus, the heartbeat pounding in Clint's chest, through his throat and out his mouth.

His tongue is numb.

The metal palm, hot and smelling of running electronics, returns to his cheek. A flesh one rests on the back of Clint's neck, lips are whispering close to his ear, so soft, so mindful of the sensitivity of Clint's aid.

"I know you're gonna wave it off as a joke, and it probably was mostly that, but we both know deep down that's not true. It's a thing that keeps growing and keeps wanting to come out. Until one day you won't be able to contain it. So when that day comes, please know I'll be here to keep you safe from it."

Bucky leans back, flesh hand rubbing at the side of Clint's neck, thumb over his throat.

"If you'll let me."

If Clint was feeling raw before, it's nothing compared to this. That thing he does? The one where he immediately gets attached? It's happening under his very eyes and he can't stop it. He swallows, the bob of it pushing up and down against the pad of Bucky's thumb, and by the time the motion ends, Clint has accepted it.

"I know you have a friend for this already, but same?"

There's a slow grin forming on Bucky's face. "My friends don't really get it, so yes. Same."

Clint grips at Bucky's wrists, his mouth morphing into another smile of his own. "Okay."

Neither moves for a while and Clint clears his throat.

"So what now, do we exchange numbers?"

"I can't let you go." Bucky stands and Clint immediately misses the contact. "Boss wants to talk to you."

The sigh that leaves Clint is long suffering. Just his luck that he gets entangled with unknown forces. He rubs at his temples. "Who do you work for anyway?"

Bucky signals at one of the cameras and the cockpit door opens. The guy standing up from the pilot seat is tall, blond and buff, military stance written all over his faux-casual pose. Besides, he's dressed in that blue costume the famed Captain of the Avengers usually wears when they make their appearances.

"Really," Clint deadpans.

The guy shrugs a shoulder in a movement that reminds Clint of Bucky. Clint squints, gaze shifting between them. Huh.

"This is Steve Rogers," Bucky says. "My brother in everything but blood." Rogers winks at that, amused and Clint huffs. "Steve, this is Hawkeye."

There's a hand extended which Clint shakes. "Call me Clint."

"Nice to meet you," Rogers offers.

"So what are you gonna do to me?" Clint asks.

"Well, I was gonna offer you a job—"

A loud beep interrupts whatever else Rogers was going to say.

"Intruder in the Tower," comes from one of the onboard speakers. "Intruder in the Tower."

~

"And that's how I met the Avengers," Clint finishes. "Well, two of them. These other guys," he waves at the room, "I got introduced to right here. Under your own eyes. What are you _doing_?"

Nat sniffs, squirms in the chair she's currently tied to. "Interrogating."

Stark scoffs from where he's leaning against the bar on the other side of the impressive living room—and frick, Clint is the presence of the elusive genius himself, how cool is that, Stark was the one that designed his latest model of aids.

"That's not a wise technique," Wilson says from where he's sprawled in an armchair, "getting caught." Another military guy that hides his training. Someone prepared these guys and did it well.

"You didn't catch her," Clint mutters and Nat smirks.

He lifts an eyebrow, Nat rolls her eyes, Clint tips his chin. Nat frowns and Clint nods. She thinks about it while Clint raises both eyebrows in assurance. After a long inhale, she stands up, the plastic cuffs that tied her hands falling to the floor.

"Impressive," Stark comments.

Clint ignores him in favor of turning to Rogers. "If that job offer is still available, me and her are a package deal."

Bucky scowls, suddenly, and Clint wants to laugh, because this is exactly what he did when faced with Rogers. Instead, he bumps his shoulder against Bucky's.

"She's my sister in everything but blood."

Nat does laugh at that. Then smacks him over the head. Then negotiates their new employment terms while Clint is busy holding onto Bucky's wrist under the table.

~

The afternoon skyline of the city stretches into the bright horizon, well beyond where Clint is perched on the bannister of the balcony. The air is cold, but Bucky's silent presence shields him from the wind. Soon, the sun will set over this day, marking his first step onto a different kind of path.

He glances at Bucky, then at their legs hanging over the long way down. They, the Avengers, seem to know more about Clint and Nat than the other way around. Steve didn't even run background checks before agreeing to their terms, so clearly he must have done it beforehand. Clint can't tell what Bucky wants from him, not from observation alone, so he decides to outright ask. Nat would be proud of him using real words like regular folk.

"How come you know so much about me?"

Bucky seems to curl in on himself. "I accidentally stumbled upon your SHIELD file."

"Accidentally," Clint mutters, and Bucky ducks his head.

"I admire your resilience. If you can survive, then so can I."

The breath hitches in Clint's throat. He's looking into a mirrorring soul and Clint wonders what's beneath, about how much are they reflecting each other and where do they part. Whether or not Bucky grows attached, too, if they'd break each other or be stronger together.

"So what _is_ this?" he asks, waving a finger between them. Bucky shrugs, staring at his hands in his lap.

"Whatever you want it to be. I'm too old and too fucked up to offer anything more than what I did. I mean, it's not worth—" He stops with a sharp inhale. "No, you know what? _I'm_ worth it."

"Of course you are," Clint murmurs.

The smile that Bucky gives him is small and pleased, filling Clint with squirming warmth.

"I'm not sure," Bucky continues. "I just met you, but there's something about you that I _want_. I haven't wanted anything in a long time."

And _that_ Clint can get behind. "I get it."

"See? That's—" Bucky lifts the metal hand between them, turns his palm upward in silent explanation.

"Yeah." The sunlight is warm on Clint's face and he licks his lips. "Let's kiss."

"Really? Just like that?"

Clint shrugs. "To see if we like it. Why wait?"

Bucky nods then, with a shrug of his own, and swoops in. He tastes like the coffee they had earlier, mouth hot and hesitant. Yet, it loosens something in Clint's belly while something else tightens in his chest, and he grips at Bucky, pushes back. He's breathless too soon, they both are, and they lean back with soft laughs on their exhales. Bucky wipes at his lower lip, thumb scraping through the stubble, lining the delightful grin there.

"Great," Clint says. "What do you wanna try next? Fuck? Fight?"

"Nah," Bucky breathes and Clint shivers, pleased with the answer. "Cuddle. Nap."

"Lead the way."

As they pass through the living room, Steve gives Bucky wiggly eyebrows, from where he probably thinks Clint can't see him, and Bucky reddens. Nat smacks Steve over the back of his head, drawing a complaint out of him, but the elevator doors are already closing, so Clint turns to Bucky.

He has a good feeling about this.

A really good one.

~End~


End file.
